Son of a Ghost
by C. M. Spinks
Summary: Erik is the son of the Phantom of the Opera. Christine is a hopeful soprano. Phillipe is a playboy Comte. Gerard is the ghost, and an unwilling father. Based mostly on the Charles Dance and Teri Polo two-part miniseries, this is something of a 'roleswitch au' where Gerard is the 'phantom'.
1. Prologue

Prologue:

She was stunning. She had to know. How could she not? A member of the ballet corps, she deserved to be prima donna, as her grace was unequivocally and undeniably mesmerising. She was famous, and half the audience came to the opera to watch her, and not the stories, he was certain.

Now, he realized, that wasn't all she was good at.

Her voice. It was truly unparalleled. What mountains he would climb, what seas would he tame, what tempests he would brave, just for the echo of that voice. But she only sang in private, alone, in dark hallways and cramped fitting rooms. He hadn't ever heard her before then, and it was because that night was different.

She'd stayed behind long after the candles were blown out, and the last of the cleaning crew had dispersed. She'd stayed until the moon had swung high overtop the opera, until even the drunkards on the street had quieted and were sleeping. There were no lovers beneath the stars, no wanderers or thieves running about the city. The alley cats had finished their nightly hunt, the dogs had gone to bed with their masters, and even the stars seemed fit to retire for the day.

She'd waited until all this and more had passed, and then she took the stage. She'd never stood on this stage alone, had never stood still on it for long at all. She'd danced and leapt and laid across every inch of it, but her aim was not to command the stage in dance that night.

Alone in the light of a single candle, she opened her mouth on the edge of that stage and _sang_.

It was his domain, the opera house at night. How many years had he maintained that rule? How many sneaking children of cast members and clambering, half-dressed drunks had he sent running to preserve this balance? Of _course_ he'd gone to investigate this alluring new sound, not that of children or drunks, still uninvited but welcome all the same.

She was marvelous. She had to know. Did she already? He couldn't conceive that she didn't, and yet he'd seen the way she held herself. He saw the shyness, that familiar instinct to hide in shame, to keep quiet, to keep small and out of the way. It was not an instinct familiar to those who thought highly of themselves, or knew themselves true.

Drawn from the shadows by the pull of her voice, her magnificent gift, honed to perfection to his graceless ears, she saw him.

She needed to know. If she didn't know, he would make certain she found out.

"Forgive me, monsieur, I- I know I shouldn't be here, I-" The beautiful young woman started to explain, afraid of punishment, afraid of being forced to leave the opera, the magical world of dance and story that had become her home.

"You must sing again." He declared, hardly meaning to interrupt that peerless instrument, but unable to let her deferrence and shame play out before him. "On this stage, for all to hear."

"Monsieur?" This was _not_ what she expected.

"You must sing again. Your voice- it's the most wondrous thing.. I could make it happen. I will, if you would allow me.." He offered a hand, a rare gesture, but he recognized that this was a unique moment, an even rarer opportunity. It would not come again.

"How? Who are you?" She asked, but intrigued now. Still shy, still unsure, but curious. "I've never seen you at the opera before.. and you wear a mask. How am I to trust you?" He had nearly forgotten! He _was_ masked, dressed in all other ways for the stage play that ended hours and hours ago. But that mask- what a necessary evil it was to him- how could he explain that a monster hid behind the plaster to such a fair lady?

"I have no name. I am simply the Phantom here. Every decent opera house has one. But-! Given the opportunity, I would be anything and everything it would take to make you a star. That being said, you're more than qualified to be so already.." The man shook his head in reference to himself, but raised his bright eyes to hers.

"I.. I may need some convincing. Music, to me, it is.. private. Special. I only want to share it with those who are very important to me.." Again she stepped back, and his hand retreated.

"I can't claim to understand. I believe, until now, that I have never _heard_ music before. Yours is the only voice.." His words fail him, dropping from his mind entirely in the face, and she was charmed. Chuckling, she stepped forward again, head tipping to the side in curiosity and wonder.

"You said you do not have a name. Would you like one? I think everyone ought to have a proper name.."

"It would be a gift beyond compare, mademoiselle, to be given a name from you." He nodded.

"Then.. you are henceforth 'Gerard'. Yes.. Gerard Carriere, the Phantom of the Opera." She smiles, chuckling, then offers her hand. Gerard, newly named, reaches up, and helps her down from the stage. Once more, the grace with which she moves stuns him, and he is unable to speak. It seems, to him, that meeting her gaze is all she can do. She smiles again, and curtsies.

"My name is Belladova."


	2. Chapter 1

Chapter 1:

 _Thirty years later_ :

Erik Carriere walked down the grand staircase into the foyer, sighing with great disappointment. A crowd of loyal employees of the opera house were gathered at the base, eager to know the details of this tragically important meeting that called their manager from rehearsal. Though Erik was not an expressive man, several members of the crowd could read him well enough by the plain expression he wore that it was not for good news that he had been called away.

"Well?" The head of the costuming department, Olivia, asked.

"I've been removed from my position as manager." He spoke flatly, placing his hands together. The crowd gasped, a few reaching out in sympathy, but never touching him. "The previous owner was bought out, and the new ones wish to deal with the art of the opera.. personally."

"Monsieur Carriere- How can this be? What will we do without you?" Reyer, the conductor, belted his dismay.

"Do not worry. I have not been let go, only demoted. If you will gather the whole company in the theatre by noon, I will formally introduce the new managers to everyone and explain." Erik spoke calmly, flashing his gloved palm to still the nerves of his fellows. With a sigh, the heads of each department nodded faithfully, solemnly, and dispersed.

When the foyer was quiet, the last of echoing footsteps receding beyond hearing, Erik sighed, and let his head hang, his hands gripping and relaxing tight at his sides. So many people at once unnerved him, bade his heart to quicken, and threatened to paralyze him. It was only sheer will that kept him from falling apart, even in front of those he considered dear acquaintances. He'd worked here more than half his life, had been in charge for nearly half of that time, and yet the fear of _people_ never left him. If anything, the more pressure he'd accepted and the higher up the hierarchy he climbed, the worse the fear got. But he had no choice, and he wouldn't have chosen anything else anyway.

He was made for the opera. He could never perform, for his cleft lip, while it did not hinder his speech, left too many in discomfort. Their vanity would not allow such a marred visage to disgrace the stage. No, he would never be allowed to perform, but he could direct. His vision could come to play before him, his precious love, music, beautiful music, could shine in his place.

Until now.

~(*)~

Elsewhere in the opera, the new manager and his wife were excitedly exploring what they thought of as their new kingdom, taking along various personal employees to accomplish various tasks.

"Now, Buquet, I need you to go down and tell me all there is. I want to know what we are inheriting." Carlotta, wife and co-manager, was nearly dragging her personal dresser to the door that separated the upper world of opera from the lower. Buquet was not a fearful man, but he had heard whispered rumors about that which lay below the reach of sunlight. He had not heard enough to know details, but he gained a general distrust of that environment, and his boss's insistence that _he_ be the one to go down filled him with unease.

"Why me, madame?" He whined as they reached the threshold. With a nasally sigh, Carlotta shook her head and pouted.

"Because I said so! Or do you want I should replace you? I like your work, Buquet, but if this is _too much_ for you, I suppose I will have to let you move on to something more suitable." She shrugged, feigning saddened disappointment. Buquet blinked once, weighing his options. He had none.

"Ah.. you want an inventory of.. _everything_ , madame?" He acquiesced, gesturing meekly to the door. With a smug and pleased smile, Carlotta opened the door.

" _Absolutely_ everything. Props, costumes, stage pieces.. I want to know exactly everything."

As the shadowy world opened up before him, Buquet could feel in his stomach that this was a terrible mistake, but unable to reason out how or why and finding no excuse not to, he took his first steps towards his last breaths.

~(*)~

It was turning high noon as Christine Daae made it to the heart of Paris, and what she hoped and prayed would be her final destination for the day. She'd walked for weeks, bartering rides when she could, to get here, and if her hopes did not work out for her today, she did not know what would become of her. She knew there were probably options out there, but she did not know how to start to find them.

But that was a thought for later, a thought of 'if'. She had made it where she wanted, _needed_ , to go, and that was an accomplishment. It gave her the fire she needed to climb the marble steps of the opera house she'd seen once a long time ago. Her limbs were weak and weary from overexertion and under-eating, but she'd come so far already, and she could not permit herself to give up on the staircase to her future. If she had made it this far after so long, surely a few more steps were within her power.

But, once safely inside, out from under the heat of the noon sun, she found that the inner doors were locked. The doorman was not at his post, but his hastily scrawled note about some sort of meeting was nearly illegible.

With a sigh, she sat herself down on the carved stone bench just outside, and pulled from her bag the last of her supplies. If the company was in a meeting, then it'd do her no good to wander away. She might as well eat and rest and try to prepare. When her meal was done, she redid her hair, organized her bag and straightened her dress. She knew she looked ragged, but it was all she had, and it was the best she could do.

She could show them, if they only gave her a chance, just how bright she could shine.

~(*)~

"And so, Monsieur Choleti and Madame Carlotta have graciously allowed me to stay on as an advisor and chorus tutor, under Monsieur Reyer, of course. I am glad to remain among you at all, for the opera and all its magic is home to my heart as much as it is for all of you and yours. I hope that we will all treat this passing of reigns with all due respect and consideration." Erik spoke from the stage, gazing over the heads of his coworkers, Choleti and Carlotta standing and sitting, respectively, to his side. "Presenting now, Monsieur Choleti." Erik gave a quarter bow, gesturing for the new manager to step forward. In the silence that followed, he clapped softly, prompting his fellows to do the same. Slowly, reluctantly, they joined him.

Almost pleased, Choleti smiled, bobbing his head once. As the meager claps died, he cleared his throat and stood taller, attempting to appear regal, managing only to look pompous and foolish.

"This is a day… we will _never_ forget." He announced. He thought he sounded noble, but his choice of words and pseudo-humility only assured in the minds of all present that he and his wife would surely ruin everything. Sighs and shaking heads were shared by the company sitting down in the seats, but before Erik could distract or disrupt them, the hallmark sound of a fluttering letter did the job for him.

Nimbly, he plucked the letter from the air. As he read the letter, the new managers looked at each other with confusion and the assembly on the floor gasped and 'oohed' and whispered, 'The Phantom!'.

"What in heaven's name is this?" Choleti exclaimed.

"I think it prudent to discuss this elsewhere. My office, perhaps?"

"I think you mean _our_ office." Carlotta rose angrily, fiercely taking her place next to her husband. Erik met her gaze for a moment, only a moment, and he saw the person she was. She held the reigns in their relationship, and she had expectations, and none of them would turn out well for anyone else.

Nevertheless, Erik had no power and he knew it, and so he put up a hand in apology. Her fire did not need stoking, and he could not tame it, so he could only soothe and attempt to contain it.

"Of course. My apologies, madame. Let us away, all the same." He did not wait for them, waving a hand to release the company, and left as the crowd began to shuffle away. Gruffly, the couple followed the former manager.

Unfortunately, they did not wait to reach the office, regardless of who it belonged to, to pester Erik about the letter. They barely reached a side gallery, a rotunda, before Carlotta's angry screeching broke Erik down.

"How much do you know about this opera house?" Erik answered her questions with one of his own, half-halting in the entryway. Choleti glanced between Erik and his wife as they stared intensely at one another.

"I know it's the stuff of legends. I know I want to be a part of it." She answered, head held high. Erik wanted to groan at her naive ignorance, but contained himself and instead continued.

"Then you do not know about our resident ghost." He sighed, and resumed his walk around the room.

"Ghost? What's this about a _ghost_?" Carlotta caught up to him, pulling her husband along with her.

"All great opera houses have one. Ours is.. less of the playful sort. He's been here since long before I was born, and he had been a quiet ghost for much of his time here before-"

"I do not care for a fake history lesson, Monsieur." Carlotta cut him off.

"If you do not care for history, you are doomed to repeat the mistakes of the past. He _was_ a quiet ghost, but he has taken a deep interest in the opera, not just the house. I took over management because my predecessor refused to obey him. I have listened, and all has gone well. When he is satisfied, he is quiet, and all goes as it needs to. We succeed when give him his small requests, and they are often in our best interests." Erik snapped, then straightened his suit coat. "I am in no position to tell you how to run the opera now, but as your advisor.."

"What has any of this to do with the letter?" Choleti flicked the paper still in Erik's hand, demanding explanation.

"The ghost has reported that someone has gone down below. The subterranean levels of the opera are his domain. He is not pleased." Erik pulled the paper back.

"'He is not pleased'!" Choleti mocked, Carlotta laughing along. Both jumped when a portrait was flung from the wall, crashing and splintering at the corners.

"That would be him. As I said, when we listen and are respectful, all goes well. His rules are simple."

"I don't give a _damn_ about his rules!" Carlotta howled. Erik's lipped twitched at the horrid sound, but if either of the new managers noticed, they did not belay it. "This is _my_ opera house, and I will run it as _I_ see fit! This- this _ghost_ of yours is but a trick! A prank! You are mad, no, you are _vengeful_. We take your position as manager and you do not like this. Well, if this is your doing, perhaps we should not let you stay at _all_!" Erik could almost respect her passion, but her disrespect appalled him. Still, her fire needed cooling. The damage had to be contained.

"Madame, I assure you that won't be necessary. As it stands, the company has not had a change in management in nearly ten years. They are grating at the change, and it would not do you good to make it anymore abrupt than it already is. I am not your enemy, and I do not aim to be. My only wish is that of the opera and its success." He spread his arms wide, as if he contain the entire palace in his arms. The simple gesture struck a chord with Carlotta, and the tension in the room faded. She understood the love of opera, and she supposed she didn't need to take it from anyone so long as she could have it too. With a pat to her husband's shoulder, he understood she would allow him to stay.

"Then you will _not_ bother us with talk of this _ghost_." Choleti reprimanded. "We are not children, and these tales will not frighten us away. You do your job. We will do ours."

"Very well." Erik could only say. He stood still in the rotunda, beneath the statue, as his managers walked away.

"Erik. What is this?" A new voice bounced into the room once they were gone.

"Gerard, what happened to Buquet?" Hesitantly, "Is he dead?"

"Answer me, Erik."

"Things have changed." After a moment of quiet, the back wall creaked and split, an opening into the world of darkness gaping before Erik. Quickly, cautiously, he delved into that familiar world.

~(*)~

As the inner workings of the opera swung back into its normal goings-on, the doorman, Jean Claude, found Christine half asleep against his station. With a gentle prod against her shoulder, he roused her and asked her how he could help her. He had to repeat himself twice before she seemed fully aware of herself.

"Easy.." He hushed her as she started to spit out any number of first words of sentences only to stop and start again. "What is your name, mademoiselle? How can I help you?"

"My name is Christine Daae. The, ah, Comte de Chagny sent me here, he- he told me I should meet with a Monsieur Erik Carriere, the manager? He told me he would recommend for me to be in the chorus.." She explained as she rose, straightening the new kinks and wrinkles in her skirts.

"Ah.. I am sorry to say Monsieur Carriere is no longer the manager here.." Jean sighed.

"O-oh.." Christine could barely breathe. It was her worst fear, and it had come true. She'd sunk every hope and dream and prayer into what seemed like her only option, and it had failed her.

"Monsieur Carriere is, however-" Jean patted her shoulder, steadying her. "- remaining on as a chorus instructor and advisor. Perhaps something can still be arranged with him and the new managers." He offered, renewing some of Christine's hopes.

"I- I would be so grateful, Monsieur.."

"Jean Claude. Why don't you come inside, the heat cannot be good for you, and I will go find and relay to them what you have said." And with that, he ushered her inside, and neither of them could have known what lay in wait for her.


	3. Chapter 2

Chapter 2:

Christine waited patiently as Jean Claude hurriedly waddled off to find his managers, secretly hoping he would find Carriere first.

However, Carriere proved too difficult to find, and the loud squealing of Carlotta was much, _much_ easier to locate. With a deep sigh and pangs of preemptive regret, he trundled up the stairs to their office, following the grating sound to its source. Hesitating for a moment, Jean Claude rapped his knuckles on the open door frame.

"Yes?" Choleti answered, delayed.

"I have a young lady at the door. She-"

"What do I care for young ladies when I have the most lovely wife in world?" Choleti spoke as he planted kisses on his wife, who giggled appreciatively.

"Ah, she is here to be part of the chorus, sir."

"Chorus? I thought we had a full chorus?" Carlotta's mood snapped to seriousness in a single blink.

"And perhaps it is according to other opera houses, but Monsieur Carriere has always maintained there is room for more and better performers-"

"I do not _care_ for what Monsieur Carriere 'has always maintained'. I will see the girl, and I will decide." Carlotta declared, shoving the older gentleman from her path. She flounced down the stairs to the office of her doorman, Christine standing nervously at her approach.

Carlotta circled Christine once, twice, looking her up and down, poking and prodding and pulling at her attire, her hair, her belongings.

"This? This girl is what you interrupted our unpacking for?" She sneered, mocking poor Christine to her face, though she aimed it at Jean.

"Well, yes, madame-"

"Look at her! She is not fit even for the chorus! How she stands, how she's _dressed_! Why you think she's fit for my chorus?" Carlotta continued to belittle Christine, who wished she could disappear, undo her coming to Paris, undo everything that lead her here, undo anything as long as it undid her standing here before this careless, hurtful woman.

"She has the recommendation of the Comte de Chagny." Jean Claude lauded, defending the shame-filled girl.

"Who is he?" Carlotta was unimpressed.

"The most powerful patron we have ever had, and my dear friend." He answered, casually walking behind Christine to put his hands on her shoulders. "And if he thinks this young lady, Christine Daae, has potential, I would take his word." Were Jean Claude an angry man, or a petty man, this line would be delivered with malice and threat. Jean was a gentle and caring man, however, and he spoke only with pure confidence and trust. Christine found her breath taken- no one had ever really stood up for her in such a manner before, let alone a stranger.

Carlotta thought for a moment, similarly but not nearly as intimately touched by Jean's sincerity.

"Very well. I tell you what we can do. My dear, Christine, was it? The only way to learn to sing, is to observe great singers. You will work here at the Opera, for me, as my personal dresser. My old one apparently spooked and has decided to _abandon_ me. It is very fortunate for you, Christine." Carlotta almost purred as she patted Christine's cheek, the same girl she was only moments ago insulting. "You start tomorrow." She waved over her shoulder as she headed back up the stairs to her new office.

"Welcome." Choleti said dismissively and followed his wife. When they had left, Christine turned to Jean Claude to hug him.

"Thank you! Oh, thank you so much!" She exclaimed into the man's lapel.

"Oh, do not thank me- I had hoped she would grant you a _real_ opportunity-"

"I don't mean that- I mean, standing up for me at all! I- It wasn't what I hoped for either, but- but it's a start.." She spoke earnestly, embracing Jean again. "It's a start.."

"Christine, do you have a place to stay tonight?" He asked, patting her on the shoulder. He judged, from her state, that she had just arrived in the city that day. He didn't imagine she'd had premade arrangements.

"No, not really." Jean sighed at that. He could not, in good conscience, let a young lady, or anyone for that matter, go from here with no destination or place to rest. The nearest place that might accept her, granting that she could even pay for a room, was nearly an hour's walk away, and she seemed neither well-funded or well-fed.

"I am not supposed to do this.. but come with me."

~(*)~

Thus Jean Claude lead Christine Daae to an unused storage room, set her for the night with a supply of candles, blankets, and dinner. It had been his lunch, but he could purchase something on the way home. His new ward was so exhausted that he feared even a night without food would find her dead or dying come the next day. A missed lunch was worth it to prevent such a tragedy.

Before he left, he assured that Christine _did_ eat, and shared with her the rules of the Opera.

"Do not wander, come nightfall. It is a large building, with many, _many_ rooms, and it would be no difficult feat to find yourself lost. If you must wander, be quiet, and do not go any further below. This palace of majesty belongs to someone and something else when the sun sets, and you would be trespassing, Christine. Opera is not a forgiving world. Rest, and rest well, Christine. I will see you tomorrow."

Christine thanked him again and they exchanged proper goodbyes, and then she was alone.

For many hours, she slept. Then, day came, and she learned her new trade. Days passed in this way: sleeping, working, eating on the lovely gift of Jean Claude, and repeating. After a week, Christine repaid Jean for his kindness with her first pay, and they took turns treating each other to lunch and trading favors. Days and soon weeks came and passed in this manner, sleep, work, eat, repeat, until something in Christine broke.

Curiosity broke the skin of fear, and she ventured forth, fearfully, but excitedly, as a bite into a new fruit. She was uncertain, but once the threshold was broken, uncertainty became daring. The dark became not a fear, but an adventure. And into the dark she ventured, seeking, of course, the stage.

And, the stage she found.

Having found it, of course, she wandered onto its precarious platform, nervous and fearful and eager. Christine stepped onto that stage and felt music take hold of her soul. Testing wordless notes, she felt sound and experience take over her. Opening her mouth, she let music, song, and love pour from her heart.

It was as nothing she had ever experienced. It was her voice, it was that stage, it was that moment, and it consumed her. She set her feelings free on that stage, letting all the woes and beauties of her heart flow willingly and carelessly, her very soul bare in the dark.

Yet, as quiet and careful as she had been, as meager and mild as her testing notes had been, she was not alone.

Erik Carriere heard her sing in the dark. He was not supposed to wander at night, he knew as well as anyone, and yet he was drawn to wandering. He knew where he was told he belonged, but that cage, that burden could not contain his desires for more, for better. He was hopeful, searching, never satisfied and yet never disappointed. Ever hopeful, he continued his futile hunt night after night, but that night- _that night_ he was satisfied.

He heard her sing, and the sound of her voice called to him in ways he could not describe. Language could not contain the raw feelings he felt as her voice beckoned to him through shadow and splits of light.

She sang on stage, and slowly he emerged to listen, tempted too strongly to resist. He was enthralled immediately, though he knew she needed guidance. Critically, he knew her voice was full of holes, things needing attendance and help and tutelage, but emotionally, musically, he knew- no, he _felt_ that her voice was so near to perfection that even hearing it drove her closer to Heaven's goal.

He did not reveal himself that first night. He listened, careful and hopeful and loving and needing, and he knew in his heart that if she never achieved stardom his life and his very soul would be forfeit to the Devil himself, for he knew that hers was the voice of Angels..

He had dreamed of and longed for her voice from the day he was born, and now she was here. His heart fluttered and flipped and failed, unable to sustain itself without her song after hearing it that first time. She retired for the evening, feeling fulfilled, but he stayed awake, thinking, his mind bending, writhing, wondering how to help her ascend. He needed her to sing more than he needed air, and his tortured mind boggled all evening, finding no sleep that night.

~(*)~

Christine was not called to the stage for many nights after that first night, and it gave Erik time to plan, to think and conceive of how best to help her. He could teach her with ease, he knew. She was already so talented, and she already knew so much, at least instinctively, and all she needed was a bit of pushing to take her the rest of the way, and that small push he could provide.

But he was forced to do nothing.

When he heard of the girl from Carlotta, naturally, he proposed that he could teach the girl, as it was his job now. However, Carlotta was insistent, verging on threatening, that if he would teach the girl, he would find himself completely jobless. This insistence was driven only by a need to be petty and cruel, but the threat was real.

He had, of course, considered teaching her completely in secret. It would not be difficult. He would appear before her, masked, as was Gerard's way, and teach her thusly. She would never know him by his name, and Carlotta would never learn who had delivered Christine's voice to heaven.

But Gerard, when consulted, refused.

"It's a damn foolish idea, Erik." Gerard was not prone to shouting, but his reprimand was very close.

"Gerard, I _must_. She is so close, so talented-"

"And I say you must _not_. You have no idea the dangers you pose to this girl, Erik. You know as well as I the darkness in our two hearts. You do not know the wickedness our darkness conceals. If you try to teach her, something worse than you can imagine will happen. Worse, even, than I can imagine." Gerard gripped Erik's wrists, twisting them up such that he knelt before the feared ghost.

"Father-"

"Erik." Gerard chided.

"..Gerard.. I must. I cannot explain, or begin to explain how I feel. She needs to sing, and I need to hear her."

"Erik, this is a fantasy. It is a delightful one, but it is a mirage nonetheless. I forbid you from indulging it. She will remain as Carlotta's dresser. If she progresses on her own, fine. But _you_ are not to interfere. There is too much at stake. If you are caught teaching her, you will be thrown from our home, and then we _both_ will be in danger."

Erik remained silent and kneeling even as Gerard released his wrists. The ghost moved slowly, raising his hands from the arms of the younger man to his face. His gloved hands straightened Erik's mask, having come loose in their small tussle.

"Make certain you tie this better, next time." He commented as he pulled the strings taut behind Erik's head. His voice did not belay the threat he held, hidden deep in his heart.

"Of course." Erik lowered his gaze, the intensity of Gerard's blue eyes too much for him. He knew what would happen should that unspoken threat be teased or tested.

"Go. Keep us hidden." Gerard pulled Erik to his feet, the small kindness a thin veneer over masked regrets. "And _do not_ interact with the Daae girl. At all, as Erik _or_ as a ghost."

With that, Gerard disappeared in the shadows beneath the world, leaving Erik in the place between light and dark.

He slowly returned to the light, bringing his shadow with him.

~(*)~

The day was coming to an end for Christine. She gathered, as she'd been shown, the discarded costumes of the day. Carlotta had said she'd be her personal dresser, but she seemed to instead be a little bit of everyone's. Carlotta never rehearsed, so Christine dressed her stand-in, and watched and listened to the stories developing around her.

They were old, and predetermined, but even as they repeated, she found something beautiful and new in them. She came to know all the lines, every note and word, such that she could sing it in her sleep. The daily tasks were almost bearable payment to come to know and love the stories and music- _music_!

She sang along under her breath as rehearsals progressed, the music taking root deep in her soul. She desired, more than anything, to be on the stage, a part of that music. But as she watched them perform, and sang along to herself, her hands were still buried in fabric, and she knew she had no chance of getting on that stage the proper way. Carlotta so loved to reaffirm that she was 'still learning' and that she wasn't ready for real lessons.

Christine felt trapped and liberated at the Opera. She was so close, she knew, but her options were limited, and she was constrained to this meager job that felt only adjacent to the Opera itself. She was part of it all, but she wasn't really. She wasn't named, wasn't seen, and most importantly, couldn't _sing_.

It kept on this way until at last the stage secretly called to her again. Instead of sneaking out after dark, she simply took her time and lingered. She planned to wait until she was completely alone, until even Jean Claude said his goodbyes for the night. As she expected, the gentleman appeared at the door to let her know he was locking up for the night, and that he'd see her tomorrow.

However, as she began to clean and collect the costumes in earnest, someone's presence became known to her from the orchestra pit.

It was just a small scuff of shoe on the floor, but in the pit of silence that the theatre had been, it might as well be gunshot. With a gasp she nearly dropped the costume she'd been folding, turning to see a masked man, dressed in a fine suit and adorning even a cape.

"Good evening. I did not mean to startle you, Christine." He spoke, a hand out in dextrous comfort. "I have.. something to offer. Please, if you will stay right there-" Christine halted her near-bolt from the stage, afraid for having been caught. "- I mean you no harm, and my offer is genuine, please. Please, I beg that you listen.."

With a deep breath, Christine nodded

"I heard you sing. I know that you thought you were alone, but you were not. I heard.. the most marvelous talent. Your voice is.. angelic, perfect in tone and depth, except that, if you will forgive my honesty, you are obviously untrained. I believe that with only a little training, you and your voice could be.. the star Paris does not deserve.

Now, I am.. an instructor. I do not expect you to know me, but you may take me at my word that I would be an invaluable key to your rise to stardom. I would teach you, but your new manager will not allow it, and thus I must wear this mask if I am to teach you, so that neither you nor I will be caught. Plausible deniability, if you will. Now, please, if you choose to accept, and I dearly hope that you will, this mask, my anonymity, and our complete secrecy will be a non-negotiable part of your tutelage.

I do not expect an immediate answer. I know that.. this is much to consider. But if you accept, I will know. I will find you." The stranger explained, stepping close to the stage only to retreat at the end, giving a deep bow, his cape billowing. "I hope you have a good evening, Christine." She blinked, wishing to reply, but he was gone.

Darkness seemed to close in on her as her inner light sparked. There was hope. She had hope, and she was ready.


	4. Chapter 3

Chapter 3:

Erik listened as she went about the rest of her job, and he could tell there was a happiness to her. It reinforced in him that he had made the right decision. She would accept, and he could teach her, and he would hear her.

He only had to keep it secret.

He slipped through the dark, down below to plan her first lesson. He kept many secrets, and while this one was very involved, it was not the most complicated. He'd learned how to lie and lie well from Gerard, so well that even the ghost himself could now be fooled. The art, he'd learned, was not in what you say, but what you don't. Secrets are held in how one acts, and lies are in the words left unspoken. He could keep this secret, and Christine would ascend, seemingly all on her own, and everyone save the cruel and foolish Carlotta would be satisfied.

The woman manager presented a unique problem. She was vain and her performances had mangled the previously impervious reputation of the Palais Garnier, but she would not listen to reason. She refused to accept critique, even when thoughtfully disguised as compliments. She refused to hear any words from Erik about her own performance, though she thankfully left most of the other artistic choices to him and Reyer. She demanded final say in all things, but she almost always chose that which Erik would have chosen himself, much to his relief.

The changes she made bothered him, often flatter, pale imitations of what they _could_ be, but they were minimal enough that his vision was not completely marred.

Had she more of a restrictive hand in all areas, Gerard would not have hesitated to undo her. As much as he appeared to merely tolerate Erik, he had proven himself to be ruthless should Erik show himself to be too unhappy. The manager just preceding Erik only ruled the opera for a short year before Gerard's threats and acts ran him out. He had been particularly cruel to Erik and the assortment of 'lesser men' Erik chose to hire, and Gerard did not tolerate it. As it stood, his 'pranks' picked up, as the sound of her voice and the disgrace she brought to Erik's Mother's kingdom hurt him personally.

Not for the first time, Erik considered the strange way in which his adoptive father regarded him. His story did not make sense.

According to Gerard, the magnificent Prima Donna Belladova had given birth to him on the edge of the lake below the opera cellars and promptly died. Gerard vowed to the dying woman that he would care for her child, and this was how he came to be Erik's 'father'.

But how had she gotten below? Who was his true father, and why would he let the most talented singer in all of France die and disappear below the opera?

And, strangest of all to Erik, why did Gerard force him to wear a mask in his presence?

It had been normal for him until he ventured up to the surface one day and saw everyone with their bare and expressive faces and he wondered… and his wondering led him to ask Gerard, and the man refused to answer, talking only of 'darkness' and the evil that was in both of them, how it needed to be contained, and how it was best for the both of them if they did not look upon each other's faces.

Erik left it there, but he could not help but continue to wonder. And, like many things related to Gerard and his dark world that Erik felt he only half-belonged in, Erik knew better than to ask anyone up above. It was a struggle, to be certain, but there was no alternative.

It didn't matter anymore, he thought. He had something bigger and more important than himself to worry about for once. For, as much as the opera wracked his mind, demanding perfection from him, nothing seemed as important as his soon-to-be star. She was by far more important than anything Erik had dedicated his heart and soul to in all his life. Even questions of his origins and oddities seemed like trifles, like placeholders for thoughts truly worth having. As he found his place in the underground home, all worry over the past disappeared. It was the future that held his mind that night.

Once more, Erik found himself without sleep, consumed with thoughts of Christine Daae.

~(*)~

Her lessons were going well. The first was bumpy, awkward, as they found a balance. It was a strange dealing- not quite a midnight meeting, but not quite as casual as a normal tutoring would go, not quite as usual. He had been a tutor, and she had been tutored, before, but it was just enough outside normal convention for either that the adjustment period was slightly more awkward, for the strangeness of it, than usual.

Erik tried to take her lessons slowly, but she took it all in as quickly as she could, and she was apt at everything he gave her. Within weeks they were on subjects and scales and scores he'd planned out for her fourth or fifth _month_. And as much work as it was to keep up with her appetite for learning, as many nights that he failed to catch more than an hour of sleep, he _lived_ for it.

Finally, he felt, someone who lived and loved music as much as he did.

And finally, she felt, someone who loved and lived for music as much as she did.

Her father had cultivated a love of music that was in her heart from before _birth_ , and no one save he had ever seemed to understand. He would play his violin and she would sing, and they together would deliver a part of heaven to ordinary people, so long as their ears and hearts were open. Christine loved the sound of music almost as much as her father, even when she was young, and now that he was gone it was hard to say that anything else brought her any joy at all. Music was her heart and her life, and her new Maestro only brought out the best in her and her voice.

As requested, she practiced only during the day and when she was tutored in the evenings. The chorus girls and the ballet corps took notice of her practice, idle but mindful humming, though she did not notice them noticing until one day they _verbalized_ the fact.

"She's awful happy, ain't she?" One of them said as she passed, mindlessly collecting their costumes.

"Four months she's been here and all she does is _hums_." Another said, scoffing.

"Yeah, but she's getting better, don't you think?" A kinder one suggested.

"Hey, Christine!" A fourth exclaimed, grabbing Christine around the waist. "Heard from the Comte lately?" She smiled, teasing Christine in just the right way. She almost angrily pulled away and disappeared with the costumes as the chorus giggled madly behind her. They thought she'd _lain_ with him, and that she was some sort of _mistress,_ that she was here to chase some lover.

She knew the truth. She was here for art's sake, and at the behest of her father. To practice, to _sing_. And she _had_ gotten better, hadn't she? She knew the words, knew the tunes, the tones, the _art_ \- so why couldn't she sing on stage? Why couldn't she perform?

Her Maestro had told her that Carlotta would not allow anyone to upstage her, and that made sense.. but if she was as talented as he said, why couldn't she be allowed at least into the chorus? Why did she have to remain backstage, out of the light entirely? Her work was underappreciated, unknown, and almost unimportant. She didn't even, despite her title, help anyone get dressed. She was just there to pick up afterwards, and she had no interest in being in that position forever.

Erik, still working officially as an advisor and tutor to the chorus, avoided Christine during the day. It would do her no good if she discovered who he really was, if she suddenly knew him in day as she had in night. He could do nothing to help her. If she knew, then everyone would know, and the opera house might as well crash down on top of them for the dual fury of both Gerard and Carlotta.

It was a difficult balance for him- he often heard her practicing and every instinct in him told him to stand at attention to the sound, or to correct and hone her talent, but he knew he could not do so as Erik Carriere, not out of the blue, not even with the context of being an advisor and tutor during rehearsals. He knew she saw him, but he hoped his attire and the fact that he really had no business interacting with her or she him kept her from investigating. He knew, too, that the mask he wore during their lessons hid his cleft lip, so only his voice would give him away, if anything. He wore dark clothes in the evening, when he became her personal ghost and maestro, and paler colors when he was out and about as Erik Carriere. Sure all these things kept him from being discovered?

Christine, if she ever thought he might be her Maestro, never confronted him about it or let the thought show.

Those past four months had been stressful in a _tempting_ way. Hearing the nigh divine voice of Christine compared to Carlotta, who sounded like a horrid mix between a dying cat and a beached whale, and _not_ being able to critique her was devastating. She did not rehearse, did not take anything but compliments to her singing, and she was just witty enough to know when a compliment was hiding a barb.

Choleti had become nervous, concerned for the financial stability of the productions, but still Carlotta was not concerned. Even as their attendance dropped, she insisted that it was the fault of others. No one could talk any sense into her, and Gerard became irritated at the way his kingdom was being run. Erik had tried not to display any of his own, but Gerard knew. He knew, and he did not like the state of the opera or how it vexed Erik. Gerard had started to increase his interventions and note-writing, but it wasn't working.. Erik knew that soon Gerard would take matters into his own hands, and that could get very dangerous indeed...

~(*)~

The Comte De Chagny had been out travelling for nearly a year now, ten long months of seeing to estates and businesses, of nurturing partnerships and ending others, things that he knew he was good at but he found no personal or long-lived joy in. It was his livelihood, and it served him well, but he lived for the short months where all was settled, ever so briefly, and he could return to Paris, to the Opera, to his friends and the shimmering lights of nighttime theatre and song and dance. It had been a hard year, new businesses calling him ever further from his home, but upon this return he had an extra joy waiting for him- he hoped.

He did not bother travelling to his Paris estate. He simply parted from the main entourage with his personal carriage and shot himself straight for the opera. His estate could wait, and there was no one there waiting for him. Housekeeping, sure, but they regarded him distantly. No, he needed the warmth of the opera house, his friends and what he supposed was his family.

Passing the reins off to the valet, he practically skipped up the stairs and through the doors where Jean Claude was waiting. The doorman was enjoying his lunch, but stood with cheer at the Comte's approach.

"Philippe!" He cheered, arms spreading wide, clasping at Philippe's own.

"Jean Claude! How wondrous to see you, my friend!" He exclaimed back. Yes- his heart soared to be back at the opera, the friendly face of the well-suited doorman just the first of many.

"How have you been, monsieur?" He asked the young Comte.

"Oh, it's no matter. Business is good, and that's all that matters on that front. Tell me, Jean Claude, and I beg you tell me true: has a young, stunning, and beautiful girl named _Christine Daae_ shown up here? I must know." He knew he was being rude not returning the question of Jean's well-being, but the girl, _Christine_ , had been haunting him since he saw her five months back, the sense of familiarity lingering in his mind.

"Let me see, Christine.. Christine, hmmm.." He pretended not to know, but the smirk on his face told Philippe all he needed.

"Jean Claude, you jest, but I do need to know! Have her lessons been going well?" He asked as he produced a cigar from his jacket. Jean Claude seemed hesitant to take it as he asked back,

"Lessons?"

"I promised her singing lessons. She's already so talented, but I knew that only Carriere could teach her her full potential." Philippe smiled. He'd sent many people to Carriere over the years, and he'd been pleased to find that his choices had been well-received by the manager and director.

"I'm sorry, Philippe. Carriere is no longer manager, and the new ones do not let him teach new students.." Jean Claude, feeling guilty though he knew he had nothing to do with that decision-making process, returned the cigar to Philippe.

"What's become of Christine, then?" This was alarming and sorely concerning news.

"She works as a dresser. Costume manager. Not.. the greatest position. I take care of her, though." He said, but he knew it wasn't enough. He wished he could provide for the girl, but Choleti had recently cut wages _just_ so, and it was a bit of a strain to take care of his own children. It was all he could do to make sure her staying here wasn't discovered, it seemed, and squirreling away savings for a rainy day.

Philippe looked devastated. Questions ran through his mind in a stampede, and he felt as though hope itself had died in his chest.

"Thank you, Jean Claude, for doing so. I.. I need to fix this." He patted his older friend's shoulder, and with a drive that the doorman had not seen before in the young man, he set off to find either Christine, Carriere, or these new managers. "I hope you've been well my friend- your efforts will not go unappreciated!" He remembered, turning as he ran to wave at Jean, then back with that focus renewed.

~(*)~

Erik walked the halls, another day of rehearsal done. He needed to skirt down below, change and eat and otherwise prepare for lessons with Christine, then bounce back up, avoiding Gerard who would undoubtedly ask questions; he'd avoided the older man for about a week now, his agitation too apparent. Gerard usually avoided Erik as much as possible in their shadowy underworld home, but he'd started seeking him out, sensing his ire somehow.

Erik not only feared his reaction to his distaste for the new managers, but what would happen if he discovered that he'd disobeyed Gerard so blatantly. He wasn't an inherently violent man, Gerard, but he was unpredictable, and it filled Erik with deep distrust and fear for what _might_ happen. As much as he'd relied on Gerard as a young child, he was not a comforting man then, and certainly wasn't now that Erik reached for independence.

He did not make it to the secret passage that would lead him down to home the quickest. A slightly younger man ran almost directly into him, and his face twitched in rare anger- after a day of agitation, trying to lessen the damage of Carlotta's 'artistic' choices, it came easier than usual, and Erik considered himself a patient man- but that anger faded in an instant, a matchstick being blown out with a soft wind.

"Monsieur le Comte de Chagny! _Philippe_! My god, what a sight for sore eyes you are! I had no idea you were returning so soon!"

"Monsieur Carriere, my friend! I tried to send a letter, but you know how port town posts' always seem to lose my letters. Jean Claude informed me you were dethroned.." Philippe lamented for him with a pat to the shoulder. Erik was not usually one for physicality, but he'd known Philippe for several years now, and he was one of the rare individuals that he felt he could allow so close.

"Ah, yes. What a miserable dealing _that_ has been.. But _you_ are back, and perhaps with a small wallet we'll have some sway over those nosey ingrates.." Erik sighed. "Not to rely too heavily on you, my friend."

"You know that I prefer your artistry to anyone elses, and judging by how stressed you are, I'd say they're hardly artistic at all, these new managers. You have my support." Philippe smiled. "Tell me, friend, do you know of Christine Daae?"

Erik flinched- he tried to contain it, but he could not.

"I- I know _of_ her. Why?"

"I sent her here for lessons from you. Jean Claude told me she works as a costumer. I _must_ right this wrong, Erik. She is talented, I'm sure you'll find-"

"I'm sorry, Philippe. Carlotta will not allow me to take on new students. I would- you _know_ I would." As much as he hated it, he had to silence Philippe's idea.

"Jean Claude said as much.. Even privately? You know money is of no concern to me, Erik. I will pay as much as I need to pay for her to learn."

"She has forbidden me from teaching anyone without her express permission if they're not already on the chorus. She's threatened to fire everyone I hired on should I go against her on this."

"Damn.. That's absurd, Erik. I will be having a _word_ with this… Carlotta."

"By all means-" Erk would have continued, might have made some comment about 'letting her have the scolding she deserves', but he saw Christine enter the wide hallway, the deep costuming basket before her, and she turned at the sound of their jovial reunion, her eyes meeting her Maestro's, unknowingly, and for too long. Far too long. "I- I have to go. Good luck, my friend." And he bolted, awkwardly skittering away as Philippe called after him with no success.

Turning to see what could have scared his friend away in such a manner, he saw Christine, and she recognized the Comte who altered her life so forcibly, it seemed, and without care. She blinked, tears and feelings complicated and unprompted springing into being. She shoved the cart before her and tried to escape in the most civil way possible.

"Christine!" He called and followed after, but his line of sight and path were cut off by the sudden appearance of the chorus girls. Upon seeing him, they laugh and cheer and giggle. It brought a smile to his face, the cheering and rambunctious welcome, but as he heard the _clop, clop_ of the loose wheel of Christine's cart, that smile disappeared.

"Yes, yes! Thank you, my friends, for your welcome!" He practically shouted, spinning the girls around, maneuvering out from between them. "And I'm so happy to be back with all of you, that I will be hosting a dinner at the Bistro tonight!" He said to great applause from the chorus girls, their questions and commendations blurring together as he stepped back toward Christine. He no longer heard the wheel turning and sticking, and hoped it meant she had stopped. Philippe turned, offering her a hand, seeing her still standing there.

"I promised you lessons. I'm going to make it right. I would.. honored and overjoyed if you would accompany me tonight.."


	5. Chapter 4

Chapter 4:

"This is a perfect opportunity, Christine." Erik said later as her Maestro. He hid excellently the anxiety of their almost-meeting, performing the gentle teacher figure perfectly. He had to, and after all, she was the one who was more anxious now.

"I don't understand.." She shook her head.

" _Everyone_ sings at the Bistro, Christine. From janitors to divas- and if you outshine them there, I cannot conceive how anyone would dare hold you back. That you have the Comte's blessing and backing is a score in our favor as well. It never hurts to have a wallet to your name.." Erik sighd. "Had I the fortune to toss behind you, I would have long ago. But the Comte feels indebted to you, I suppose,so he will fight all the more ardently to make wrongs right."

"I.. I suppose that make sense. I just- I don't feel ready. We've only been having our lessons for a few months now.." She wrung her hands, pacing the room that served as her classroom. Erik craved, more than anything, to reach out and still her and calm her, but he was not brave enough, even cloaked, to act on that desire.

"You _are_ ready, Christine. Truth be told, I have been struggling to keep up with you- you've learned so much so fast that I am.. about out of things to teach you. Even if we are not immediately successful, this _will_ be the first step to getting you on that stage." He offered instead, his voice reaching her heart and calming it's panicked dance in her chest. She stopped, stock still, and smiled.

"Forgive me if this is, well, vain, but I- I know that my _voice_ is ready. I'm just nervous to go alone. I- I have only met the Comte the- the once, and I don't exactly have friends amongst the rest of the company, save Jean Claude. So I- I am worried about the social aspects of this night. I can handle the stage I just wish.." And she silenced herself, feeling childish.

"What is it? Tell me what you wish, Christine." He stepped closer, head tilting to the side in curiosity.

"You'll think me silly."

"Never."

"I wish you would go with me. I know you can't, but that's.. what I wish." She raised her eyes to meet his, noticing not for the first time the mismatch color. His right eye was green, the left a blue-gray, but both stared at her in soft disbelief.

"I.. suppose.. I might be able to meet you. Your lessons are nearly complete, and if you are debuting anyway, the damage is done, so to speak. No one can stop what's already happened, and it won't matter if you know who I am.." He spoke carefully and cautiously, afraid of what he was saying but more afraid not to speak at all.

"Do you- Are you certain? I would- I would love to meet you, Maestro.." She beamed, wonder in her eyes, and it was that light so stoked by his words, by _him_ , that convinced him. He pulled his hands out from his cloak and removed his gloves, revealing lightly sunkissed hands and a silver ring worn on the index finger of his left hand.

"This ring will be what identifies me. I will introduce myself, or have the Comte introduce me, tonight. We must pretend not to know each other previously, Christine, but I will meet you there.." And he smiled behind the mask as she beamed. Erik felt as though there were stars in her eyes when she looked at him with such unbridled excitement. "Now, prepare for disappointment; I'm afraid I'm not much to look at."

"I won't care either way, Maestro."

~(*)~

Erik found her the perfect costume dress- one long unused and unrecognizable- simple in overall design but resplendent in the minutia, and helped her as much as an unaccompanied man could assist an unchaperoned woman. He did her hair, held her mirror, tied her ribbons, and the moment was strangely intimate. Helping her was such a simple thing, and yet it was the world to him. The closeness, not just physically, but the trust she placed in him made him reel.

He supposed it was just as much as he was about to trust her. She, besides Gerard, would soon be the only other person to know his two identities. True that she wouldn't know the depth of 'Maestro' hopefully ever, but he'd shared parts of himself as her Maestro that he could never share as Erik, unless, of course, someone with an open heart and mind knew of both.. As she soon would.

Having come to know her over the course of their tutelage together, he knew she was of the sort to understand him whether he was Erik or Maestro, and now, at last, he could become both.. at least a little, and just for her. There was no one else he could really trust- he had to hide so much of himself from everyone else, including Gerard. He often felt as though he were hiding aspects of his person from _himself_ , and it was only somewhere between all the lies and deceptions and half-truths that the absolute truth of Erik might possibly lay.

He disappeared beneath the opera house, to where the facsimile of a home waited, after escorting Christine as far as he could as Maestro. His costumes, his masks, and his father figure were down below.. though today he only needed one of them.

He chose a simple white suit shirt with golden threads that accented his golden vest he wore only as Maestro, and a black suit coat, as was social convention for the time. A deep burgundy cravat around his neck, and the ever so important ring that would mark his identity to Christine, and Erik felt ready to go. Lingering at the mirror, though, he wondered if he could attempt to fill in his cleft lip.. Even if there were such a way, Erik had never done so before, and it would be out of his established character.

"Erik.." Gerard's voice cut through the quiet contemplative moment, and Erik rushed to return his mask to his face before Gerard saw. His voice was already bearing an irritated tone, and it would not end well for him if it got any worse than that.

"Yes, Gerard..?" He didn't turn back to Gerard even once his mask was securely in place.

"Where are you going at such an hour?" Erik held back a biting comment about how Gerard wouldn't know the time of day if not for all the clocks around the house, as the man never ventured outside the thickest walls of the opera. Instead, Erik turned.

"The Bistro. The Comte is back, and as usual, he wants to celebrate." He spoke smoothly, giving away none of the anxiety that speaking to Gerard produced in him.

"It's late. You should have already been there if you were going." Erik could hear the suspicion and accusation in his voice, but chooses to ignore it.

"I had some business to attend to, that's all. I'm on my way now-"

"What _business_? You aren't the manager anymore- what business could keep you later than you ever stayed above before?" Gerard pressed, his taller form consuming the doorway. His hand shot out to grab Erik's wrist, twisting him around. "And _where_ did you get this?" He sounded angry now, truly upset, his eyes glowing behind his mask as they stared at the ring on Erik's index finger.

It's a simple ring- silver, but not plain. It's gently worn, but brilliant, light engravings in twists and curves. There is a light green jade stone set in the top.

"It's- my mother's-"

"I _know_ who's it is, _boy_ , that is not the question I asked!" Gerard snapped, pulling Erik close, further twisting the younger man beneath him.

"I've worn it for years- Mother left it in the envelope she left for me.." He explained. Belladova had left him a letter and some small things of importance, and Gerard had kept that envelope sealed until his teenage years. The ring had been too large to wear then, but come his twenty-first birthday he'd grown into it.

"It's _mine_." Gerard declared, stunning Erik. He didn't know if Gerard meant that it now belonged to him, or that it _once_ belonged to him. Gerard didn't explain as he started to pry the ring from Erik's finger. He resisted, but the death-filled, wordless glare Gerard delivered him silences any protests he'd been forming. Ring in hand, he shoved Erik away from him shortly, and disappeared into the shadows of the rest of the house.

Erik's heart sank.. He felt cold and hopeless- how is Christine to recognize him now? Not by his voice, which he'd hidden as her Maestro. Not by his face, which he'd kept hidden for anonymousity's sake. Not by his attire, which he kept distinct for each 'identity'.

He was doomed.

~(*)~

At the Bistro, the party was in full swing. Everyone had sung or plans to, and they ate and drank and joked and danced merrily. Philippe seemed to be the only one not enjoying himself. Though the company and the Bistro were his favorite place to be and people to be with, someone was yet missing. Two someones, actually.

Neither his friend Erik Carriere or his invited guest had appeared yet. He had hoped at least _one_ would be here by now, but they were both unaccounted for. He struggled to interact with any of the rest of the company, knowing that this night, which he meant to be a political move to advance Christine's career in the most amiable and socially acceptable way possible, was too important to get caught up in drinking and song and dance. If he allowed himself to get lost in the party, the whole evening would disappear in a glazing haze of wine and music.

So he acted as a server, ferrying wine and tapping people to take to the stage, and kept his eye on the door, turning hopefully every time he heard the doorbell chime. He was almost hopeless when the door sang again, and the room hushed. Handing a glass of wine away, he turned, and there, at last, was Christine.

It was a dress he almost recognized, but touched up, altered in some way. Perhaps it was just that she was in it, because they both shone. Her hair was up, similar to her daily style, but tighter, neater, and adorned with fabric flowers and pins of pearls. She seemed nervous, being at the center of attention, but then the nervousness faded, and the light and the focus _became_ her. As Christine moved into the room, the party started to resume, but all could tell that no one's attention or thoughts were on anyone or anything _other_ than her.

Philippe met her near the door, his ungloved hands reaching for hers. Hesitantly, as if searching for something, she took his hands.

"I'm glad you made it."

"I'm glad to be here." She replied.

"Will you sing?" He half gestured to the stage, where someone, he could tell, was stepping down. But his eyes never left hers, and hers left his for just a moment, to flick to that stage, feeling the call.

She turned around, looking for something or someone, but failing to find them, she turned back to Philippe, and nodded. Smiling, he led her to the stage, helping her up. Christine ascended, speaking briefly to the band, choosing her song wisely. A difficult one, one that needed long hours and days of practice and dedication of talent and mind.. one that would force her audience to recognize her for what she was: a talented performer.

The room was still stirring from her surprise entrance, and a small giggle rumbled through the room as the more experienced of those watching recognized the song, and assumed that such a girl, no matter how pretty or interesting, would fail to do the song justice. But the room went still as she opened her mouth and sang. If 'stunning' was the word to fit her entrance, then 'paralytic' was the word for her voice. 'Mesmerizing', 'astounding', 'hypnotic'- any of these words might come close to describing the way she captured their attention, at last in full, and held them rapturously to her voice alone.

Outside, late and distraught from losing his key to a continued interaction with Christine, Erik missed the first moment of her performance. He heard her as he approached, however, and that paralytic power of her voice in full performance nearly drove him to his knees. It was only the shock of having missed the start that kept him going; if he had missed so much already, he could miss no more. He paused at one of the posts, nearly overcome, but he forced himself onward.

He was hesitant to open the door, knowing the bell would ring, but he deftly reached in before the edge of the door could actually strike the bell to stay and steady it. Erik slipped in, hand up on the doorbell, but flicked his eyes, over-eager, to Christine.

Beautiful. She had to know she was beautiful. How could she not, when she sounded like that? When she stood on that stage, so powerful as to hold the entire room under her sway, how could she _not_ know?

And yet, as she was so gloriously commanding the room, one person was not under her power. Her rival, boss, and primary abuser.. Carlotta. She watched, she heard, and she was impressed in the most dangerous way, full of jealousy and wrath.

 _How dare_ this girl attempt to usurp her throne? And true that her kingdom had grown weak, heaven only knowing why her own brilliance was not being recognized, but that gave this _whelp_ no reason or room to assume she could just _slip in_ and try to take away what was _rightfully_ Carlotta's! Full of wrath, knowing on one hand that Christine's talent far outshone her own, being jealous of her youth, she could not stand to see Christine shine where she was supposed to.. Carlotta rose and took the stage, needing no prompting from her husband.

She took the stage, already raising her voice above Christine's as her foot hit the second level. It was appalling. If taught, Carlotta might have had a decent voice. She certainly had range, but she lacked control and she lacked understanding. She had volume, too, and she used it to make her voice tower over Christine's much more balanced, educated voice. She couldn't quite drown Christine, however, and her wavering tone horrendously contrasted with Christine's sweet tone.

It drove Erik into a rage. He might have assaulted Carlotta had Philippe not grabbed hold of him as he tried to pass. It seemed bizarre that Philippe might stop him, but he had noticed what Erik had not. So wrapped in his attention to Christine, Erik did not notice the ire with which Carlotta was singing, or the irritation her voice was inspiring in the audience. But Philippe did, and Carlotta could see it too.

Even as she circled Christine like a vulture around a dove, Carlotta knew she had fallen from grace. No matter the power, the fury, or the volume with which she sang, she was not enough, and everyone in the room, including her, _especially_ her, knew it. As her voice faltered, Christine's rose above again, and no one could deny her sweet but powerful voice. Erik and Philippe steadied each other as her voice threatened to consume both their hearts.

With all the overt negative attention, and the inescapable truth that Christine was her better, Carlotta inevitably fled. Angry, humiliated, she did not run, but she might as well have.

Christine finished the song, superior and emboldened, with flourish and raw, feverish power. The entire bistro, from the members of the band to the servers to the company proper burst into applause in celebration. Only Choleti clapped with reservation, knowing the consequences of what he now had to do. On the positive side, the revival of the opera was assured with Christine as the new face and voice. On the negative, his wife might literally kill him.

He loved her. He worshipped her. To him, her voice was the one he could live beside, and she was all he desired. But he knew no one saw or heard her how he did. He knew that she could be better, but she was not the sort that would listen. She'd made her bed.. and now he had to lay in it.

"I'm going to sign her up.." He said, mostly to himself, but the delivery was that of grim misfortune, like the passing of a loved one. For business, he had to, but what would this do to Carlotta, his most beloved? He'd just have to redouble his efforts to make her feel loved, something he'd had to do increasingly more in the recent months.. but this had to happen.

Across the Bistro, Philippe retrieved Christine from the stage, showering her with his bright smile and beaming compliments.

"Please, come this way- I have someone I want you to meet!" And he ushered her to Erik, who was waiting by the bar, where Philippe had left him. His breath was light as she approached, nervous to meet her as Erik and not as Maestro.. but delighted all the same. "This is Erik Carriere, my good friend, the former manager of the Opera, current advisor, and the man who was meant to teach you.. I think everyone is in agreement you don't need those lessons anymore, however.. You've grown so much on your own!"

"Oh, not on my own, Philippe.." She said, looking around the Bistro before finally addressing Erik. "But it's a pleasure to meet you, Monsieur Carriere. I regret not being able to learn from you.." Her eyes caught the cleft lip, the line that ran from the left side of his upper lip til nearly all the way up to his eye, but her eyes lingered on his. She blinked, and said no more.

"A pleasure to meet you as well, Mademoiselle Daae. I regret not having been able to teach you, as I fear our mutual friend, Monsieur de Chagny, is correct." He offered his hand, and she slowly pried her eyes off his to look for the ring- and did not see it.

She was confused. His eyes, this Monsieur Carriere had her Maestro's eyes, and yet no ring. The ring, he'd sworn, would be the key to recognizing him. Yet this man, who had her Maestro's unmistakable eyes, did not have that ring. Did Maestro know that Monsieur Carriere had the same eyes as he, and thus gave the ring as his true marker so she would not be confused? That had to be the truth, she figured, as Monsieur Carriere did and said nothing that made her think of her Maestro..

Disappointed, she smiled and took his hand, letting him kiss the knuckles on her hand. "I look forward to working with you in the future, I hope." She said.

"I can't imagine that even Carlotta and Choleti will fail to recognize you now. That.." And Erik was breathless, "..was a _triumph_."

"Thank you, Monsieur.." Christine blushed. She knew it was true, but hearing it felt amazing.

"I told you, Erik, she is the next diva, the next true star that Paris deserves.. and she deserves Paris.." Philippe stated, giving her shoulders a squeeze. Erik blinked; he hadn't realized that Philippe had been holding Christine so closely to begin with, nor that he hadn't released her. Part of him, something somewhere between his stomach and his heart, and elsewhere between his heart and his head, ached with a feeling that he was not familiar. It twisted inside him, made his hands curl and his breath stop.

"Of course." He said shortly, and then suddenly, nervously or irrately, he turned, pulling tight his fitted suit coat, "It's good to see you again. Good night." He dipped his head, and ducked out of the conversation and then the room.

Neither Christine nor Philippe were certain they knew to whom he was referring.


	6. Chapter 5

Chapter 5:

Christine went with Philippe out to the river, to the park, riding in his carriage and in the rented boat, riding the high of conversation and the knowledge of something that he'd come to know in the course of the evening. They talked of careers, of business, of art, of everything that seemed to matter. And then they talked of things that did matter, of heart, of vision, of futures, and again of art. They spoke of the past and love and dreams, and then they spoke of memories of childhood.

"Why do I keep thinking I've met you before?" Philippe asked. "I thought it the moment I heard you singing at the fair- I even thought I _recognized_ your voice. Am I dreaming?" He asked again, and Christine knew at last her secret was up.

"No more than I." She said coyly, smirking. Philippe knew she was teasing him, and normally he might be irritated with such behavior from someone he didn't know, but he did know her, didn't he? And either way, it was charming, and her smile- ah, it was like a taste of childhood sun. "Don't you remember the girl in the kitchen?" She asked, to remind him, and they both remembered:

 _A little girl of about ten came in to serve him and his governess their afternoon tea. She was stuffy and horrible to talk to- the governess, not the girl. The girl he'd never spoken to, but he'd seen her and her father around the estate. His governess had hired them to make up for the staff that had gone with his parents during the summer._

" _Business." They'd said when he asked why couldn't come with. 'Business' was all they had time for, and thus he'd been a lonely child._

 _But the girl! He'd never had anyone around the estate his own age, and she and her father were an intrigue. She was obviously new to her various tasks around the house, the cleaning and the serving and pampering. He tried not to ask_ _ **too**_ _much of her, but his governess allowed no such privileges._

 _If she stared too long at any one thing, especially one of them, the governess would slap her hands and urge her to work. If she was too slow, the same. If she erred, the same. She was without patience for the girl, and Philippe despised it, but he had little power even as 'man of the house'._

 _One day, when she ought to have been cleaning, her hands had roamed a little too closely to the piano, and it sang for her. Hesitant, as her hands had been hesitant, but then with simple grace and small delight. And then it stopped- he'd seen her, and she'd heard him enter the room. Fearing reprimandation, she'd stepped back, head down._

 _Philippe would never have struck another human being, let alone the girl who intrigued him so. But how to tell her? Words wouldn't suffice, and they always came out wrong for him anyhow. The only thing he could think of was to continue what she'd started. He wasn't so very talented at the musical arts, something he was greatly disappointed in, but the tune she'd tapped out was one he knew enough not to butcher. He picked up the companion part, playing it around the air that her part should take up._

 _Christine joined in, and together they played the duet lovingly. That song and that moment sparked a friendship that lasted the summer, and something else that coincided that would last a lifetime._

 _Her father played the violin, and she sang, and Philippe would play the flute. Together they would gather the household's servants as the day came to a close and the duties of the day were done and they would hold a concert. This was the one thing that brought them all together, and it was a charming, relaxing time. Despite the politics of the household, the struggles, the classism, they had at least these nightly moments together bound by music and fading summer sun and dancing, teasing autumn winds._

 _During the day, whenever he could, he'd steal her away from whatever task his governess or some other member of the household had given her, always finding someone else to do it, of course. It was an estate-wide conspiracy to give the children a proper summer. The regular servants knew their young master was in dire need of some childhood from years of helping raise him in their numerous ways, and anyone who looked at the girl and her father could tell they needed rest and spiritual bolstering. It was a great game to find and give them all the time they needed to enjoy each other and their youth._

 _They would run and chase each other across the estate, near the woods and the shores, through the fields and the house and the garden, across walkways and under trees. They went wherever, did whatever, said anything and everything they could think to say. It was a rare and peaceful time for the both of them, and for the first times in either of their lives, they felt not alone. Their friendship was not simple, but it was good, and it was true._

 _It was on such a carefree summer day of simple childish sport, the play of running and chasing, that his governess discovered them. She'd suspected for most of the summer that he'd been shirking his studies, and that she'd been shirking her work, but she had not for an instant thought they'd been simultaneously doing so to spend time together._ _ **Unchaperoned**_ _._

 _She was furious. She was outraged- why, if his parents_ _ **knew**_ _what she'd unknowingly allowed him to get up to while they'd been away!?_

 _Well enough, she'd thought. The father had only signed a contract for the length of the summer, and autumn was drawing near._

 _A few weeks was close enough._

 _The next day, she sent them away. When another maid served him his breakfast, he knew. Philippe had dashed from the table, spilling the offending breakfast as he went. The maid knew why, of course, and didn't hold it against him. He had to stop her, or at the very least he had to apologize and say goodbye. He caught up to them just as the heavy iron gate slammed closed behind them._

" _Don't go!" He cried, and they turned. There was a sad look of inevitability in her father's eyes, but Christine didn't share that look. She reached back through the bars to hold his hand, but she couldn't think of anything to say. Similarly, now that he had her here, he didn't know how to begin to apologize, or how to tell her how much she and the summer they'd shared meant to him. His words always came out wrong, after all. She knew, though. It was a summer that lived in both their hearts._

 _Philippe still resisted as his governess dragged him away from the gate, and Christine hesitated as her father took one of her hands and gently tugged her down the path. Their eyes met for jsut a moment through all his struggling, and then she turned. She had to- this wasn't her home anymore, and though Philippe would welcome her, those in power did not. She and her father had to find some other place to call home, as had happened many times before for many different reasons._

"Christine.. my god." Philippe breathed as he remembered everything. Christine could only smile. Finally, she was no longer 'the girl from the fair'. She was Christine, and he was Philippe.

~(*)~

Erik was distraught. He tore back down to the opera house and then down the tunnels of shadows to what he supposed was his home. It had never felt like home, despite being more or less safe, and the only 'home' he'd ever known. He couldn't remember the brief instances of life he'd shared with his mother, but he couldn't imagine she'd have left him here, alive and deep below the world, if she'd known that in time he'd come to hate the shadows that made up his life.

He couldn't even bring himself to return fully. He stopped at the river that ought to deliver him the rest of the way, but he couldn't seem to make himself step into the boat. The house and his bed and his few precious things were that way, but so was Gerard. Erik didn't want to see him, didn't want to speak to him or hear his voice, not after he single-handedly ruined his chance to have the semblance of a normal life.

He didn't understand why Gerard had taken the ring in the first place; he couldn't imagine Gerard had figured _everything_ out. He might have guessed that Erik disobeyed him in teaching the girl, but not that he planned to reveal himself, and he'd been so _certain_ that Gerard didn't know about Christine!

He had made sure that before their lessons started, he changed his routine, staying out later doing nonsense and wasting time around the Opera. Gerard had of course noticed the changed and asked him about it, and if he had any doubts, he saw for several weeks that he did only as he'd said, wasting time. By the time the lessons started, Gerard suspected nothing, for he'd seen plenty of evidence that Erik was only stifled down below, which was a feeling Erik knew the older man knew well.

So why? Why take the ring? Why do so _now_? Erik had been wearing the ring for some time now.. surely Gerard had seen it before?

Then again, along with wearing the mask, Gerard greatly preferred that Erik wear gloves in his presence. He'd worn the ring religiously, but so had he done with the gloves.

Still, though, the ring had been given to him by his mother in the letter that Gerard gave to him, as he'd been asked, when Erik turned eighteen. That was seven years ago, though only five ago that he'd been able to wear the ring. The fact remained that it had been his mother's, who'd been given it by his father, his father by blood, the one he didn't know. Why should Gerard claim it, after all his insistence that Erik was not his own progeny? And how Erik had asked over the years!

He didn't mind the idea that Gerard had sired him, he only wanted to know for certain. He didn't know what lay behind the mask, but Gerard told him only that it was the face of a monster, and he should never ask to see it. And he hadn't. His found-father deserved that respect, at least.

But what if he wasn't his found-father? What if, somehow, he was his father by blood? Why lie, all these years? But the ring! It was the cut and style of a gentleman's ring, not the smaller, delicate form of a lady's ring, so his mother's statement that it belonged to his father made sense, and Gerard claimed it as his own. Did Gerard not _know_ that Erik was his?

Erik's world spun at all the thoughts of what-ifs, but he shoved them off. It was time to think of 'what now'.

The way he saw it, it didn't matter whether or not Gerard had fathered him, he'd still sabotaged his plans, even if it was a minor plan, comparatively speaking. He'd caused Erik great distress tonight, and he did not want to confront him, at least not at the moment. So he stood, and trudged back to the surface.

It was time to try to live by daylight. If he was ever to know Christine the way he wanted, out in the light, he had to have a life there, a proper one, not one of coming and going between the two worlds. He made enough, he knew, to live well outside the opera and still provide for Gerard.. It was late to start tonight, but he could start in the morning.

He could start being Erik.

~(*)~

It was late in the night before the disappointment of having never met her Maestro set in. It had stung, to be true, when she'd left without him, but as the quiet hours of the early morning were approaching, and she and Philippe had fallen into companionable silence, that it really struck her.

Like a slap to the face or the screeching shriek of a wanting, whining Carlotta, the thought that her teacher had never even shown up made her heart skip a beat. She startled Philippe as she sat up,

"What time is it?!" Her voice was filled with alarm as she gathered her skirts, which weren't even hers, to leave.

"It's still early, why-"

"I have to go." She implored him, pulling at his hand for him to rise. Even when they were young, Philippe had never really seen Christine anxious or terribly upset, and seeing it then deeply unsettled him. So he rose and took her back to his personall carriage.

"Where to?"

"The opera."

"Why the-"

"Because it's where I have to go." She spoke shortly, unable to meet his eyes, for hers were locked on the road and the slow pace he'd set for his horse. Further uncomfortable seeing her distressed, he urged the horse on, though gently.

The ride was a relatively short one, only half an hour, but every minute felt like an hour of its own, until at last she was stepping from a barely halted carriage. Philippe called after her, but she only slowed and turned for a moment, before disappearing inside.

Philippe stood in dismay and confusion for several moments, unsure whether he was meant to follow or to go. Given her hurry, he assumed the latter, and sadly, full of unknowing jealousy, set his horse to take him home.

~(*)~

Earlier in the evening, Carlotta had stormed from the Bistro, her ego shattered, her wrath inflamed. Carlotta suspected for a long while that Christine was somehow, somewhere, staying in the opera itself. She'd held the knowledge for just in case she'd need it to barter with, a talent she held in almost as high regard as her music, and she needed it now.

She hadn't waited for Choleti, and instead taken a cab to the opera alone. No one would dare touch her tonight, not with the scowl of an incensed demon on her chin. It was this scowl that confronted Jean Claude at the door, just as he was locking up for the night. She practically pinned him in his little box office.

"Madame!"

"Christine! Where is Christine!" She demanded.

"Christine?" He echoed, confused.

"Yes, _Christine_. Where is she?"

"Where _is_ she?" Was she missing? How would he know? Carlotta, irritated, snapped,

"Was your mother a parrot?!"

"A parrot?" Now he was _sorely_ confused. What had a parrot to do with his mother and furthermore Christine? Carlotta let out a deep, throaty sigh.

"Do you like your job?" She snarled. Jean Claude could only blink and nod once. "Then _tell me where Christine is!_ "

"She isn't back yet..!" He assured her.

"Well!" She said, smiling maniacally. "Tell me when she gets back! I'll be in my room!" She returned to snarling, and turned on her heel and stomped off, her hideous dress ruffling unflatteringly behind her. Jean Claude crossed himself and sent the biggest of prayers for Christine. Carlotta was out for blood.

~(*)~

Christine rushed into the room, the room they always used for their lessons. The spacious room was once a ballet parlour, or was still used as such during the day. Christine didn't know the details, only that it became their studio when the sun set. Her maestro always came to get her, or was waiting for her here, and tonight he had done neither, despite promising to meet her maskless that night.

He was nowhere in sight or sound. He was nowhere, as far as she could tell.

She'd believed him when he said he'd come. He'd promised, hadn't he? So why hadn't he shown up? Why had he lied? Did something happen to him? Did he change his mind? About meeting her, about _teaching_ her?

She sat in the sole chair in the room. She wasn't surprised it was there. Things were always what she needed them to be in this room, except now Maestro wasn't here. There had been magic in this room, but now she saw it depended on him. She'd thought for a moment that maybe she'd been the one bringing the magic to this place, but now she could see it had always been him.

For whatever reason, he wasn't here. She was alone.

Until, suddenly, she wasn't.

She felt the new presence enter the room as if it were a wind, but too cold to be a summer wind _or_ a person. She looked up, standing, too.

It was a man. Or it looked like one. Like her Maestro, he dressed in all black, wore a mask, though this one had a cape and was taller _and_ wider than her Maestro. His mask was different, too. Maestro's mask was almost skin toned, and smooth. This one's was smooth, too, but painted white, brilliant white compared to the sheer black of his attire. His hair was waved like Maestro's, but gray and frazzled, not nearly as well kept.

Furthermore, this man exuded fear. He was not afraid, no, but he made _her_ afraid. He was terrifying, not for his appearance, but for something she couldn't place a proper thought on. She sensed, somehow and strangely, a potential for gentleness in him, but that potential was buried in the absolute terror coming off him now.

"Wh-who- who are-"

"I would ask you the same thing, if you could but finish your question to begin with." The strange, shadowed man spoke. "What is your purpose being here?"

"My- My Maestro- He- he taught me, i-in this room. I- He-"

"He _what_." He spoke gently, his voice _charming_ , but it sent shivers down her spine and threatened to make her heart collapse.

"He promised to meet me tonight, but.." Christine didn't know what to do. She didn't want to betray her Maestro, even though he'd abandoned her this once, but this man before her put an ice in her soul that she couldn't seem to thaw.

" _But_?" He demanded.

"But he didn't appear. So I came looking for him the only place I thought he might be.." She spoke to the floor, too afraid of the man to meet his eyes.

"I see." The man said, and slowly lifted his hands. Though he was standing across the room from her, she very much feared he might strike her. He was the sort of man, it seemed to her, that was unpredictable in the worst way. But no, he lifted his hands to remove his glove, to reveal, like a shot through her heart, the ring she'd searched for all night.

"Maestro?" Her voice was an agonized whine.

"No. But I can tell you about him."


End file.
